Interment of Jeff Noordermeer at the Gate of Heaven cemetery
Burial ceremony conducted by Rev. Msgr. V. James Lockman

Food for the wake after Jeff's funeral.
The table is covered with a Dutch tablecloth

A Remembrance of Jeff Rudolf Noordermeer

March 4, 1933
to June 9th, 2009

By Susannah Adler

Uncle Jeff was a
storyteller of legendary proportions, and there would be no one more suited,
more perfect, to recount this most beautiful life than he. But on this sad
morning of remembrance, I humbly and happily attempt.

Those
who knew him called him “Uncle:” too youthful to be grandpa, too cool to be dad
– a sweet-natured guardian, a wiseman, endlessly encouraging, profoundly
thoughtful. This was the right title.

Though
never a blood relative of mine, I gave no second thought to consider him
family.

“He’s
Uncle Jeff,” I would say to those who inquired.

And
that was that.

He
is part of my earliest memories, and part of some of my most lasting ones.

When
my own father died nine years ago, he stepped in to fill the empty shoes. And
they fit him well.

“Susie,”
he would proclaim, placing one hand firmly on my arm, “You know, I will always
be there, whatever you need. You know that. You can always come to us: Melly
and me, we will be there.”

And
though we gather here today because he is gone from us, I believe that, yes, he
always will be.

We,
forever mindful of the way Uncle Jeff lived his life, will follow his lead.

For
never was there a better example of how to measure each day; he did so in
heaping tablespoons. Nor was there someone more loving, more compassionate,
more gregarious than Uncle Jeff. I am quite willing to bet that no, there
never was.

When
I was a little girl, I had to be at school at the crack of dawn. Uncle Jeff
would drive me there. Like most children, waking up early for school was not a
strong interest. A quick breakfast, then peering anxiously from my living room
window each weekday morning, I would spy Melly and Jeff’s cherry red Honda
Accord waiting heartily in my driveway, exhaust smoke dancing blithely from the
tailpipe. If you can believe that a car has the capacity to smile, you would
agree that this one surely did.

“Not
again! He’s always on time!” I thought to myself.

Begrudgingly,
backpack in tow, I made the somber descent down winding stairs to the waiting
Uncle Jeff. His friendly “good morning,” shrill to the ears of a glum
schoolgirl; but it took no longer than a grumpy moment for a smile to take
over.

I
was delivered each morning, safely and happily.

And
at the end of every afternoon, he was there again to pick me up. Uncle Jeff
would kindly ask how my day went, and whatever had happened previously, was met
with sincere concern, with a father’s love.

“Oh,
Susie,” he would say. “You’re a smart girl. I know that you can do anything
you set your mind to. I know that, whatever you do, you’ll be successful,
girl!”

Like
a hot cup of coffee on a cold winter night, you couldn’t help but feel warm.

I
will always cherish each and every one of those brief car rides.

There’s
a picture of Uncle Jeff when he was a small boy. He is only six years-old or
so, on the eve of World War II. He sits eagerly in a schoolroom, earnest; his
blue eyes bright, curious; his ears poking out, listening; a little boy’s
gap-toothed grin, expectant; his arms crossed in anticipation of something new,
something that could be learned that day, his dirty-blonde hair proudly parted
neatly to one side, only a few tousled bits gathering over his forehead.

“We
should put this picture in the funeral brochure,” I urged Melly.

“No,” her reply.
“Nobody would recognize him!” She laughed.

Sure, it’s unorthodox,
but isn’t this the Uncle Jeff that comes to mind, the one whose passing a mere
four nights ago has created a void that cannot be replenished? Because in the
best way possible, Jeff never grew up. To me, this picture is quintessential
Jeff. Even in his mid-seventies, he remained hopeful, energetic, youthful,
inquisitive. Always a child at heart.

I carry this
picture with me today.

I think of this
wonderful face when I read Jeff’s unbelievable life stories, which I hope you get
a chance to do too some day. They’re extraordinary.

Because Uncle Jeff
was a man of many stories. You could be running late for an appointment, for
work, inching towards the door; but Jeff could talk, and he kept going. Youwerestaying for this story. And he had a philosophy and adages
about life. I’ve listened to them so many times, I will recite some for you.
“People are people,” he would say. “I don’t care if you’re black, white, red,
purple, yellow or what. I love everybody all the same.” And he did.

And
he loved animals, too. “Animals have feelings just like people,” he believed.
And don’t they? When he was a child, Jeff would watch pesky rats play in the Rotterdam canals for hours on end.
To others these rodents were vermin, but in Jeff’s
eyes, they were magnificent. Before the war, his father gave him six baby
ducks for five cents a piece. Jeff made a home for them in his living room.
When World War II rained down on Holland, Jeff stole food to feed the rabbits
in his family’s garden – even though he didn’t have enough food to nourish
himself. But that was Jeff.

And
Jeff was loved. Oh, he was and will forever be loved. Anyone who shared in
his final breaths on one recent balmy June night, that, after a day of
torrential storms, revealed to us a most dazzling pink-orange sun slowly
disappearing over the horizon – knows that he was loved.

But
like I said before, nobody can say it better than Jeff; so I leave you with his
own words of infinite wisdom:

“For
the misfortunate ones in this society, I always have time to listen, and if I
can be of any help to brighten their day, it has always given me a lot of
pleasure. If I would ever strike it rich, I would share my wealth with my
friends and people I know who needed it more than I do. I never wanted to be
very rich in life, just comfortable. I will never be rich because I have too
much heart for other people. It gives me great pleasure to help people who are
not as fortunate as I am, especially if I can help them to make life better for
themselves… Somehow there is a reason for everything that is happening to us in
life. The road we travel isn't always smooth, but we must also realize that the
road is not always rocky [either]. There are happy moments ... but nothing in
life will last forever.”